“So even if you wait for them to attack, lure them to your turf, you’re still horribly outnumbered?”
“My army is highly trained. Skilled,” Gentry says, bristling. “Each of my guards has decades on those children the Làidir calls soldiers. However, they don’t know how the Slayborn train. How you fight.”
I see where he’s going with this. I perk up immediately, setting my fork and knife down on the table with just a little bit too much enthusiasm.
“We’ll do it,” I say, breathless. “As long as it means we take Seamus down. We’ll do it.”
“Do what?” Castor asks, looking between the two of us. “What are you on about, Berkeley?”
“We can train the Unseelie!” I explain, my words coming out in a near indiscernible jumble. “We’ve both trained with Seamus and his band of merry men! Who better than to show Gentry’s guard how to beat them?”
Castor doesn’t look convinced. “That’s a nice idea and all, but there’s only two of us. How are you proposin’ we train hundreds of men in the span of a week?
Gentry leans forward and glances my way, the hint of a smile drawing its way over his face. “No,” he says. “Not just two. We also know where to find two of the best fighters that the Làidir has ever seen.”
For the first time in what seems like a lifetime, I feel the weight on my chest lift, and the dark haze clouding my mind parts just a fraction. After all of the betrayal, all the tears and the heartache, I still have one thing to hold on to. One thing left to keep me going.
“I’m going to see my parents.”
Chapter Eighteen
Never Take Gifts from a Fae
It turns out that the Unseelie Court isn’t just pandemonium. It’s complete and utter chaos.
Fenodyrees and merrows and gancanagh all crammed under one roof, all expected to live in harmony. It’s like trying to squeeze all of New York City into one apartment complex. Gentry does his best to keep everyone distracted, sating them with feasts every night, fae men and women dressed in barely more than smoke and glitter, all the booze and Crux that anyone could want. Even so, the Unseelie court is wild, and it’s fevered, and it’s unpredictable.
Castor has hardly left my side for a second, practically butting heads with any fae that dares stare at me too long. At first it was obnoxious. Now, though, it’s reaching unbearable.
“All I’m sayin’ is, how do you know he’s telling you the truth?”
Castor walks next to me as we wander through the courtyards, past Crux-addled bodies and lovers in bushes. He’s been bugging me about my deal with Gentry ever since the two of us made it the other day. Castor and I stay here and begin training his men, while he sends an envoy to the Seelie Court up in the mountains to collect my parents. Easy peasy. At least, it should be. I don’t know why Castor has to be such a little bitch about it.
“He said it’d take a couple’a days. Well, it’s been a couple’a days, hasn’t it?”
That Irish brogue I once found so charming is starting to grate on my nerves. Sure, I’ve come to grow a very grudging respect for the guy. I might even call him my friend. And I’ve never been one to be shy about telling my friends when they’re about to get whacked upside the head.
“Castor, I swear, you bring up Gentry, or my parents, or any of your general brand of bullshit again, and I’m going to kick your ass so hard you’ll taste my boot. And I have not been watching where I’ve been stepping.”
“You’re not leavin’ me much to talk about there, are you love?” Castor grins, chuckling. “Alright, fine. You win. I’ll shut up about it for today—under one condition.”
“Oh, good Lord.” I roll my eyes. “Fine then, Atticus. Lay down the law.”
“You go to tonight’s ball with me.”
The ball. Right. In all of the excitement of waiting for my parents, I haven’t been paying much more than a passing interest in whatever the latest debauchery of the day it is that Gentry has planned.
But I’ve definitely heard mention of a ball, a celebration of the upcoming Solstice. It’s just hard to think of celebrating so soon after Meemaw’s death. So soon before we’re all going to have to kill again. Before I’m going to have to drive my sword through more of my Slayborn brothers and sisters. My mind flits back to Jasper. To the Slayborn girl that I had killed, a halo of blood spilling out from the back of her neck.
But it’s the only way to stop even more bloodshed. The Trolley Problem. Psych 101 all over again. Do you let the train kill five people? Or do you flip the switch and murder one? The greater good, paid for in blood. We’re going to end this war once and for all. Put an end to the age-old feud between Unseelie and the Làidir. Finally bridge the gap and bring peace. A night of violence for centuries of peace.
I guess that’s reason enough to celebrate.
“Yeah, I’ll go to the stupid ball with you,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But I have conditions, too.”
“Which are?”
“I get to wear a paper bag, step on your toes during all the dances, and hoard any platters of hotdog weenies that I find.”
“Well, I don’t see how’s it’s fair that ya get three conditions on my one,” Castor says, face lighting up with a grin. “I’m sure you can find something better than a paper bag. Though really, you’d look stunnin’ in nothin’ at all. You know, on second thought...wear that.”
“Maybe I will,” I tease, sticking out my tongue. “But I’m sure you won’t be able to get a dance in edgewise.”
It’s revealing. That about sums it up in a single word. I’ve seen bathing suits that have more fabric. And yet the cut still somehow seems modest, draping around my curves and hugging tight against all of the essentials.
Of course this is the sort of dress Castor would pick out for me. I found it on the bed of my chambers, all wrapped up in a bow and waiting for me with no not attached. Gag. I’m surprised at Castor’s choice in color—a deep, silky blue, almost the same as the Unseelie armor—but I have to admit, it looks good against the bright red of my hair. The way it’s cut, it even makes it look like I have some tits to speak of. Talk about lift and separate.
Two slivers of fabric connect at the waist, draping down into a skirt that pools around my feet on the floor. A slit rides up the side, past my calf and up the entire length of my thigh. I guess I won’t be wearing panties tonight, then. One wrong move...I snicker at the thought of accidentally flashing my ass at the entire Unseelie Court. A Slayborn mooning. Wouldn’t be the first time my backside has accidentally freed itself.
But this dress sits tight, snug enough around my waist to stay in place. I give my hips a few experimental swings. Other than a scandalous amount of thigh, nothing.
I’m fairly sure the ball has already started. I can hear the faint thump of music even through the thick walls of my room, and every now and then, a tittering couple passes by my closed door. I should join them. I reach for the handle, fingers closing around cool wrought silver, but I can’t bring myself to open it.
I don’t care about some dumb ball. I don’t want to go laugh and dance and have a good fucking time. I know I sound like a complete ingrate. Gentry is being more than hospitable, after all. But all I want to do is see my parents. Attack the New Order of the Làidir. Kill Seamus.
It feels like I’ve been waiting for far longer than a couple of weeks for this. My patience is thin, my nerves are raw. I feel like I’m about to snap, and spending the evening being poked and prodded and jostled around by a bunch of drunken fae isn’t going to help that.
But I promised Castor. And honestly, I could use something to stop myself from obsessing. At this point, even my dreams are all flashing swords and warm blood. I could use a break. A fucking drink.
With a deep breath I push through the door, ready to go find Castor—but apparently he’s beaten me to the punch. He stands there in a tunic that he clearly borrowed, but which still fits him well. It accentuates each muscle of his chest, tapering down to a tailored fit across
his hips.
It’s dark blue to match mine, making his eyes look almost aquamarine in the lamplight. For once his hair is combed, tamed back into a mane that, if I’m being honest, is pretty damn suave. Judging by the look on his face, he knows it, too.
“Well would ya look at that. We match!” He grins, gesturing to his suit, while I knit my brows in confusion. Of course we match. He planned our outfits. Didn’t he?
“Yeah,” I mutter, chewing on my lip. “So you, uh...like the dress?”
“Like it? You say you’re comin’ in a paper bag and you turn up in this masterpiece.” Castor steps back, checking me out with an exaggerated wolf-whistle. “I’m no’ so sure anymore that we should go to the ball anymore. Maybe we should just stay here.”
Normally, I would jump at the offer. Avoid the crowds, uphold my end of the bargain, and get laid to boot? But even though Castor looks undeniably delicious in his tailored outfit, I’m just not hungry.
“C’mon,” I say, shuffling out the door and latching it shut behind me. “Let’s go before they run out of cocktail weenies.”
We follow the last straggling couples together, arm and arm, Castor beaming while I try my best to look excited. I doubt it’s working. Because as we walk, all I can concentrate on is the soft blue fabric rubbing against my breasts, cinching at my waist, swishing between my thighs. If Castor hadn’t left me the dress, there’s only one person who could have.
Despite the fact that everyone is smiling, the conversation pleasant, the air relaxed, I feel a cold chill run down my spine. Gentry knows what my end game is—but what do I really know of his? I smooth my hands over the fabric of my gown, the old warning ringing out in my head louder than ever.
Never take gifts from a fae.
Chapter Nineteen
Leanan Sídhe
The ball is just about what I expected.
Fountains—literal fountains—of wine spout out from the center of the room, nude marble women and little fish men spitting red from their mouths like blood. I soon realize that relatively speaking, what I’m wearing is the height of modesty—there are sheer silver gowns, kirtles that spill to the side, tunics that reveal just a little bit too much chest muscle on all of the wrong men. And, as the evening progresses, a lot of these outfits seem to shrink piece by piece.
“Having fun yet?” Castor hands me a glass of wine, eyeing the fae around us uncertainly.
I see him avert his eyes as an attractive woman comes prancing by, breasts on full display, at least two or three elves in tow. She gives Castor a roguish wink and a beckon before flouncing off through the crowd, leaning over to plant a kiss on the head of a squat, fat little fenodyree. It waves her off with a grumble, returning to its poker game.
“Just like home,” I mutter, taking the wine without looking at him. It really is like being back in San Francisco again. Except compared to this, my Slayborn ragers seem more like tea parties. I scoot back to make way for an elf stumbling his way through the crowd, sloshing what smells like gasoline on anyone unlucky enough to get in his way. “So, have I fulfilled my obligations yet, Castor? Do you give me my leave, O Master?”
“Ooh, I like that,” he mutters, leaning in a little bit closer. “Say it again.”
But I barely hear him. It isn’t so much the hum of the crowd drowning him out—over the years, I’ve perfected the art of conversing over a drunken racket. I can hear him just fine. It’s more that I’m temporarily distracted by the man who’s just walked into the room.
Gentry stands tall as he surveys the crowd, still dressed in his ceremonial cape and doublet. On his head he wears a crown, sapphire set in silver, each intricate knot glinting off the candlelight thrown around the buzzing hall. The crowd falls to a respectful hush as he steps forward, arms raised in greeting.
“Unseelie,” he says, deep tenor echoing to the very corners of the room. “Friends.” His gaze flickers to Castor and I—a small nod of recognition. I have to fight the blush that rises to my cheeks at the move. “Tonight, we celebrate. Not just the Winter Solstice—but also ourselves. Our cause. Everything we have worked for, everything that you have all sacrificed—It’s all led up to this moment. And when we win this war, no longer shall we cower underground. Next solstice, we’ll feel the grass on our feet. The sun on our face. And no longer will we have to fear the unjust blade of Seamus Blake!”
The hall rises back into an uproar, louder than before, feet stamping on the floor and cutlery banging on the tables. It doesn’t die down as Gentry takes his seat at the head of the hall; if anything, it grows louder when everyone resumes their conversations all at once, each trying to be heard over the other.
But I’m still staring at Gentry. The sharp lines of his face. The hint of hard muscle beneath his doublet. But, most of all, the way that everyone else is looking at him as well. Awe. Admiration. Adoration. Whereas Seamus rules with an iron fist, Gentry seems to take a bit less of a Machiavellian approach.
“Hey.” Castor nudges me, drawing my attention back to him.
I shake Gentry out of my head—after all, if I want a hard body tonight, I have one right here. I give Castor a smile, though it doesn’t feel sincere.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “You wanna dance? I best get mine in before all the other fellas see you in that dress, eh?”
“I don’t think that’ll be much of a problem,” I mutter as a fae woman walks by, tall and slender with a sheer tunic that drapes off every perfect curve of her body. Even Castor is drooling as she passes. I roll my eyes, grabbing him by the hand and standing. “Alright, then. One dance and you can go back to ogling the local talent.”
“What?” he says, doing his best to look baffled. “I—wh—”
“Oh, shut up and come on.” I drag him out to the dancefloor, if you could really call it that.
Bodies grind and writhe, mashing together in a way that a horny teenager might describe as dancing. I’m not one to talk, though. My mind flashes back to similar scenes at my own parties, me in the middle of the throng, hopped up on Crux and looking for a guy to give me a bit more of a natural fix. I shut my eyes, trying to block the thought out.
That’s not me anymore. Right? I glance down at the wine glass still in my hand, sloshing with a generous portion of amber liquid. It sways alongside my vision—or maybe that’s just me who’s swaying. Either way, I shove the glass at the nearest passing fae, who gladly accepts it. Castor raises a brow, but thankfully, he has the good graces not to say anything as he takes me by the waist.
The band has struck up a slower tune, almost mournful. When I glance up, I do a double take—a banshee stands on the stage, tall and beautiful with ghostly white hair, her voice dipping and swaying in a trembling vibrato. Not usually my jam, but I have to admit, it’s not bad.
Castor’s hand wraps around my waist, his other tangling its way through my hair and around my shoulders. He leans in close, his breath hot against the crook of my neck.
“Weren’t kiddin’ about the dress,” he mumbles, his fingers twirling around a lock of my hair. “You’re lucky I’ve got such good self control. Fuck, I’d like to throw you down on one’a them tables right now.”
His hand wanders a little lower, giving my ass a firm squeeze. Through the thin fabric of the dress, its as if I’m wearing nothing at all. Castor spins me, dipping me slightly, and I know it’s so that he can press my hips against his, show me just what he’s doing to me.
But when I look back, my gaze upside-down—I can swear I see Gentry staring directly at us. Eyes dark. Brow furrowed. Fists clenched over the arms of his chair. When Castor lifts me back up, Gentry’s gaze is focused on the handsome gancanagh next to him.
“You know, maybe I should give you your leave,” Castor murmurs, his voice nearly making me jump. “Just the two of us, some dark corridor somewhere—plenty here to choose from—”
“I gotta go.”
I don’t know why, but suddenly, I feel hot. The people around me are too close. Castor is too close.
The fucking Underking sitting halfway across the room is too close. I ignore Castor’s protests, ducking down into the crowd, weaving my way through heaving masses of elves and waifs and drunken Unseelie so that he has no chance of following me.
Outside of the hall, the Court is silent. I wander through dark, dripping halls, well aware that I’m probably going to end up getting myself lost. But my feet move of their own volition, what little common sense I have lost to the wine coursing through my system.
The further I wander, the warmer the air grows. Whereas before I was cursing the pathetic excuse for a dress I’m wearing, now, I’m tempted to take it off. I can feel the sweat dripping down my bare skin, soaking into the fabric and slicking it against my body. I try pulling it back and shaking it out, but it just sticks right to me again like a second skin.
I’m debating turning back—the cool air of the tunnels behind me seems so inviting right now—but then, I see a flash of green down the corridor. Just a few more steps couldn’t hurt.
I continue, the air getting warmer with each step, more humid—and then, suddenly, I’m no longer in the stone halls of the Unseelie court.
All around me, the world bursts with life. Trees glistening with fruit like dewdrops, big, luscious flowers blooming bigger than my head, reeds that rustle and quiver despite the lack of wind in the air. I glance upwards, expecting to see the night sky overhead, but I’m greeted with the same gray, mossy stone that makes up the rest of this place.
I may have had a few glasses too many at that ball.
I continue to walk forward, breathing in the faint scent of honeysuckle on the air. My heels sink into wet earth underneath them so I kick them off, leaving them lying in the bushes. The grass tickles at my toes, warm and soft, cushioning each step like a cloud as I move. I walk past rows of arching trees and budding blossoms, past the glow of small bugs humming through the air, until I finally reach what I can only assume is the center of the garden.
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